Unbreakable
by Sena Rae
Summary: But he was not predictable and he was not weak. And he wanted more, much more than she was willing to give. He wanted it all.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: A "what if it happened this way" kind of story. A/U. A journey from season five to present.

In all of his relationships, he was always just a piece of the other person's life. And, eventually, that piece got smaller and smaller until it did not exist anymore. But he would never settle for that with her and although it was selfish and possessive, it stemmed from years of never quite having enough.

He had watched her play the men in her life for a long time, watched her control and decide each twist and turn. He thought they would be above that, but she lied and she kept things from him. She tried to balance the pieces in her life, instead of letting him help her hold on to them, sort them out, make them a whole. She underestimated his need to come first, to have control of his own, his need to know she was totally his.

She almost let Christopher in, because in a way, he was safe. A piece of her childhood that already fit neatly into the space that she made for him. She would always be the better parent, the more mature one, the stronger one. It was safe and somewhat predictable and she would have gone for it if Christopher hadn't screwed things up, _again_.

But he was not predictable and he was not weak. And he wanted more, much more than she was willing to give. He wanted it all.

And somehow it all became too much. So he walked away. He never thought he would be the one to do that.


	2. Chapter 2

She has found the perfect path from the dining room to the office to the foyer - her nightly pacing ritual. It is late and she should go home, get some rest, but it is getting harder and harder to walk in that door lately.

Home is where Luke used to be but he hasn't been there for 6 months, 2 weeks, and 3 days. But who's counting? Not since he broke the back door. Not since she told him she understood him when he said it was too much. Not since she told him she wasn't that kind of girl, you know, the kind that cries and begs her boyfriend to stay.

It was awkward at first, bumping into him, but unavoidable. She remembers the first time she decided to brave the diner for a cup of coffee. It was a Monday. The door bell chimed as she entered and voices hushed. She walked up to the counter, a huge smile on her face, and ordered a coffee and a danish, _to go please_. She remembers his face that first time, shock and then a grateful kind of respect. After that it became a Monday morning ritual, almost a challenge to show the town that they could coexist even though they didn't coexist anymore. And even after 6 months, 2 weeks and 3 days, every Monday, it was a little easier to get up.

Home is where Rory used to be, but she hasn't been there for 3 months, 1 week, and 4 days. But who's counting? Not since she dropped out of Yale and she moved into the pool house. Not since she told her she could not come back to Stars Hallow and just do nothing.

It's not just that Rory is not living at home, because she really hasn't lived there for a while. But she is not visiting, her books are not on her shelves, her voice is not waiting for her on the answering machine when she gets home late.

She has never been this alone.

She almost feels like she is not grown up enough to be this alone.

She has lost weight. The dress she is wearing extenuates her slimness. She would like to describe herself as delicate, but she knows that it would not be accurate. She is more brittle than breakable. She feels brittle, like a piece of herself falls away every day and soon there will be little left that she can recognize. And she almost wishes she could break, like a piece of fragile glass, and be done with it, instead of losing herself bit by painful bit.

Sitting in her office, closing her eyes for just a minute, she drifts off to sleep. This is the only place she feels safe anymore, that she feels in control, of which she is proud.

"Excuse me, Ms. Gilmore," the night supervisor says as he shakes her awake.

"Maybe you should get going home, get some sleep," he says kindly.

"Of course. Thanks," she says, gathering her things, walking blindly to the Jeep.

She notices the time when she turns the key in the ignition, 10:30 p.m. She had been asleep in her chair for an hour. Feeling groggy and disoriented, she starts the drive home. But before she's aware of what she is doing, she is pulling up in front of the diner and jumping out of her Jeep.

When the door bell chimes, she comes out of her stupor, realizing her mistake.

"We're closed," he says without glancing up.

And she stands frozen just inside the door, remembering every other time he said those words and didn't mean them.

Looking up at her, he says them again, with a weariness, a tenderness even, remembering too.

"Sorry," she says backing out the door.

The house is totally dark when she gets home. She hates the feeling of dread and fear she gets just walking up the porch steps. It is like the house is haunted with moments she can never quite get back, a constant reminder of what she has lost.

The routine here is the same too. Toss the coat, take a quick glance at the answering machine, that doesn't answer back, trudge up the stairs to peel off the layers of work.

Donning a robe, she slips back down to the dark rooms. Taking down a glass she pours a neat shot of Jose Cuervo. Sitting on the couch in the dark, she downs the drink that hopefully will help her sleep.

The knock is faint, just a tapping, really. She has heard this knock before, the tentative steps taken by an uncertain man. She has not heard it in a long time. Probably 5 months, 1 week, and 2 days, but whose counting?

She remembers sitting in this same spot as she listened to his half-hearted attempt to take the first step. But she knows the drill, count to ten, he will be gone. Because the half-hearted never stay very long, this she knows well.

She pours another shot and begins the counting in her head, _ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one_. And she knows he is gone, because he has always been gone before when she has finally gone to the door and this time won't be any different. She downs the second shot and starts for the stairs, but she turns, realizing she has forgotten part of the game.

She startles him when she quickly pulls the door open and he startles her, just by being there. She stands aside as he enters, quietly closing the door, leaning her forehead against the cold wood for just a moment. Her stomach feels hot and her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol. She resigns herself to whatever fate has to offer when she turns to face him.

Touching just his fingers, she leads him up the stairs.

They have not spoken, but what is there to say, really? Her compulsive act of unconscious need has triggered his. They look at each other and know that having gotten this far, they are too weak to stop what will happen next. And they are not willing to stop it. They will just try not to damage each other too much in the process.

"This doesn't change anything," he says, but she lays her fingers over his mouth to halt his faltering words.

"I know," she answers, letting him off the hook.

She unties the robe and lets it drift to the floor. She stands naked in front of him for just a moment, then walks around the bed to lie down. He sits on the edge, his back to her, indecision in his posture and she is not sure if she wants him to stay or go. When his first boot hits the floor an overwhelming feeling of fear claws its way up from her belly and for a moment, she almost tells him to leave. But an overwhelming need, a sudden rush of emotions keep her silent. When the second boot hits the floor resignation takes over, quelling the fear, extinguishing the hope that leaps into her heart for just a moment

Everything seems slightly fuzzy around the edges and she is thankful for the alcoholic haze. Lips meet in rough abandon. There is little tenderness, for their need is a desperate thing, but none is wanted. Pleasure comes in waves, physical feelings so intense they block out any need to think, to feel. Beads of sweat form on her brow as the pace increases, hard, fast, deep. Her breathing sounds loud in the quiet room, panting in response to his movements. She moans in pleasure, grasping for release, but it stays just out of reach, an elusive thing. She keens as he shouts out his, reveling in the shudders that temporarily wrack his body, finally releasing her.

Her head is swirling from the combination of exhaustion, alcohol and heaving breaths. And as she thinks to herself,_ I've been well and truly fucked _she feels another piece of herself falling away. She welcomes the oblivion of sleep, as she closes her eyes. . .

She awakes with a start, disoriented, heart pounding. She refuses to open her eyes, feeling him next to her, feeling vulnerable and exposed. She does not expect this, she thought he would be gone. She can feel his fingers gently tracing her brow, brushing the hair off her face, rubbing his thumb roughly across her lips. And he kisses her tenderly, just a slight brush, again and again until he has her trembling, clutching him, asking for more.

"I've missed you, I've missed you so much," she whispers, wrapped up in the feeling of missed opportunities, broken dreams, broken hearts.

He stiffens above her and she knows she has broken some rule, some limit he has put on this night. Her words hang in the air, breaking the intentional silence. She can not stop the wave of hurt and anger and shame that washes over her. Tears prick the back of her eyes, but she refuses to cry. She pushes at his chest, struggling in his embrace, but he holds fast to her.

"Shhhhh," he whispers.

"Don't," he says, soothing and seducing.

"Don't fight me." But she can not fight herself, never mind him.

So she puts herself into his hands, unable to deny him.

And everything is slower this time, sweeter, tender. Sad, like goodbye. And it does not matter to her anymore if she shows her feelings of love for this man, because she has no where to hide anymore. And for a moment, just a moment, he does not hide from her either. And the goodbye just becomes all the more sweet.

He does not stay and she bites her lip to keep from crying out her need for him to not walk out the door. As he turns his back to her and slowly dresses, the tears fall silently from the corners of her eyes, wetting her hair and soaking the pillow.

The sound of the door closing echoes loud within the dark house, muffling the sound of a choked sob.

It is late when she wakes, the day gray and dark with the smell of a late summer storm. The previous night seems almost like a dream, as she goes about her morning routine, shower, dress, blow dry her hair. Reaching in the medicine cabinet, she fingers the pillbox, remembering how she forgot to refill them last month. She drops the empty container in the trash. _Fate cannot be that cruel._

_To be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

Thefirst Monday after their night together she was unable to walk into the diner with any kind of grace, the mask she had kept firmly in place having slipped beyond repair. And when his answering look held more guilt and confusion than acceptance, she knew their pretense of being passing friends was not going to work anymore.

She has not been back since.

Weeks have passed yet nothing has changed, she has stayed locked in her misery, her loneliness, without Luke, without Rory. She has had time to reflect, time to be caught in the mire of regret, time to be rueful of her foolish pride.

The tiles of the bathroom floor feel cold on her bare feet as she sits on the edge of the tub, staring down at the test in her hand, counting off the seconds. She knows in her heart that the test in unnecessary, that she's not pregnant, but she needs confirmation. When it reveals her instincts are true, the disappointment is a tangible thing. Tears run silently down her cheeks, as she rocks herself back and forth, arms clenched tightly around her middle. She doesn't even understand her own tears anymore. She doesn't understand why she's mourning so, just that the pain feels real and almost welcome.

She misses him. It is just as simple as that, yet just as complicated.

If she had any doubts as to her true feelings, they were extinguished a long time ago. Never, even through the years without Christopher did she pine for someone the way she pines for him.

It's almost funny really, the irony of it, that her life has become so simplistic, the people and things he thought too much, gone. And it is that lack, which has her reeling and railing against this latest cruel twist of fate. Another piece lost that can never be found.

Lying down on the bed in the dark she remembers the last time he was here. She walks through each step and touch in her mind, an exercise she's done over and over again, to ease the torment of her heart. But this time she grasps his shirt as he stands to leave, and he slides back down on the bed with her, smiling gently at her insistence that he stay. A fantasy so much better than the realty of her silent tears.

Would he have stayed if she asked? He didn't have to stay after she fell asleep the first time, didn't have to so carefully erase the coldness of their reunion with tender kisses and attentive hands. He didn't have to let her love him so fully, without words, without demands, taking a moment in time to heal her wounds and silence the heartache. Would he have stayed if she asked? Was he waiting for her to? Did she disappoint him again?

Somehow it seems important to know the answers to these questions, to swallow her pride in the asking, to share with him her loss of something that was so precious a thought, that to lose it had her doubting her sanity.

Rising, she dresses to go out, before fear and pride keep her locked away and clinging to a past she knows she can't change.

The early November streets are littered with fallen leaves, the cool crisp air, flushing her cheeks as she walks quickly toward town. The square is covered in white twinkling lights, their soft glow casting shadows on the gazebo floor as she enters and sits quietly on the bench. She can see him clearly, cleaning up at the end of the night, walking from table to table. This isn't the first time she has sat in this same spot, watching him, unable to make a move to close the distance they have imposed on each other.

Flipping her cell phone, she dials the number.

"Luke's," he answers.

"Luke, it's Lorelai."

"Hey," he answers softly, and she closes her eyes for moment, savoring the sound of his voice, the welcome in his tone.

"I need to talk to you about something, can you meet me after you close up?"

"Sure. Where are you?"

"In the gazebo."

"Okay. Give me a couple of minutes. You want to come in? Go upstairs?"

For a minute she's tempted, surprised at his invitation, his willingness to box himself into his apartment with her. But she doesn't trust herself in such a private setting, needing air and space and escape routes.

"No. Come out here. Okay?"

"No problem," he answers, hanging up the phone.

The bout of tears earlier has left her melancholy and spent, stripped of her usual facade. The questions that felt so intense earlier seem futile and foolish in light of their current circumstances. They have hurt each other so much, whether intentional or not, they have battle scars that are not going to be healed by demanding answers to philosophical questions. He did leave, he chose to, she didn't ask, she couldn't, and even if they both regret their actions, they cannot erase what went before. As minutes tick by waiting for him, she doubts her ability to say anything coherent, but maybe it's not necessary anyway. As he walks toward her, she thinks maybe this is enough, maybe this is all I need, _just a moment_ to drive away the lingering pain she can't shake, the feeling of loss she can't help but feel.

"Hi," he says as he walks up the steps to meet her, smiling slightly.

"Hi," she says smiling back, awkward and shy.

"Are you okay?" he continues, trying to prompt her from their sudden awkward silence.

"I'm not pregnant," she blurts out, sighing deeply.

"Okay," he answers looking confused, waiting for her to elaborate.

"When we were together, well. . . I hadn't been taking my pills. . . well for a long time actually. . . because well there really wasn't any need to . . . and I wasn't thinking clearly. . . and anyway. I just wanted you to know that I'm not pregnant. I think it's important for you to know, well, that everything is okay, and there are no surprises. I just thought you might want to know. . ."

"I have a kid," he whispers.

"Luke, I'm not pregnant," she says again, thinking he has totally misunderstood her.

"I know. I have a kid. A daughter. She's twelve. Her mother, well, she i _didn't /i _tell me, and obviously we weren't careful and she didn't think it was important, you know to tell me for twelve years. . ." he says defeated, sinking down on the bench, knees splayed, bent over, looking down at the floor.

Of all the things she ever thought she would hear out of Luke's mouth, this is probably the last. _Luke has a kid._And for a moment, she feels cheated again, robbed of her moment, numb with shock.

"I thought it was important that I tell you that," Luke whispers dejectedly. "That you know how complicated my life has become. I don't know how to do this, you know, be a father. I don't know what she needs from me. I don't know what to do for her."

"You're going to be a great Dad," she says, meaning it sincerely, and just that easy she steps out of her role as ex-girlfriend to be best friend again, wanting only to be there for him.

Sitting next to him, she reaches down and holds his hand, folding her fingers between his, feeling the rough material of his cut off gloves against her softer skin. She feels him sigh deeply, staring at their entwined hands, running the fingertips of his free hand over the back of hers.

"It's going to be okay," she whispers, as he tightens his grip.

They sit in silence for while, the feel of his strong shoulder against hers, the touch of his fingertips along her skin, gathering strength from each other.

Taking a deep breath, she finds her resolve. It is past time that she was totally honest with him, past time for pride not to get in the way. Needing him to understand, needing to share her own confessions with him, she gathers herself and takes the chance.

"Luke. . . I was disappointed. . . more than disappointed actually. I know that it wouldn't have been fair to you, but for a moment, I let myself . . . want it. . . you know what I mean."

"Yeah. . . I think I do," bringing their joined hands up to his lips, he plants a soft kiss on her knuckles, "because . . . just for a moment, . . .I think . . . I wanted it too."

_To be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

_"Yeah. . . I think I do," bringing their joined hands up to his lips, he plants a soft kiss on her knuckles, "because . . . just for a moment, . . .I think . . . I wanted it too." _

She feels her heart flutter at the soft touch of his lips, and his words are enough

to ease the pain of the last few weeks. She has had her _moment _her little piece in time where all pretenses are gone, and they are left with just their honest feelings. If only they could go from here, a little more sure of each other, then maybe, just maybe, there would be hope for a future.

"I gotta go," Luke says, jumping up from the bench, dropping her hand abruptly.

"Luke, wait," she says, grabbing his arm, halting his hasty exit.

She can see the apology in his eyes. Has nothing changed? Did what he just said mean anything at all?

Taking a step closer to him, she clutches his flannel shirt through his open jacket, feeling the softness under her fingers. Tugging at the material, she remembers her dream, his willingness to stay when she showed him her need.

"Luke," she whispers, cupping his face with her free hand, leaning in to kiss his lips.

"Lorelai, don't," he replies, turning his head and sliding his cheek against hers instead.

"I can't do this right now. I can't be what you need," he says finally, reluctant words forming slowly. "I need time. Time to figure out how to be a father first."

"Luke, you don't have to do this alone," she answers sincerely, knowing she could help him.

"I just need some time," he says sighing, not knowing how to explain his fears. "I could use a friend," he says finally, asking her to understand, needing her to know he doesn't want her totally out of his life.

"You got it, mister," she answers through misty eyes, smiling bravely at him.

Toying with the button on his shirt, she knows she should turn and walk away now, that he's defined their relationship again, and left her powerless.

"Luke, I need to ask you something. It shouldn't be important but somehow it is."

"Okay," he says reluctantly.

"If I had asked you to stay, would you have? Were you waiting for me to?" she asks in spite of herself, needing to know.

"Lorelai, don't do this," he says, his hands running up and down her arms, like he's bracing her up for some pain.

"Please Luke," she answers, knowing she's just pouring salt on a wound, but needing it still.

"Yes. I would have stayed," he says watching her face carefully, the way her eyes close to keep in the pain. Kissing her gently, he pulls her closer, unable to let her go yet.

"I was a fool. I walked away because I wanted everything and I wasn't willing to give you time. I was afraid of how much I was feeling, surprised by how jealous I was. I didn't want to share you, with anyone. I didn't think you could possibly feel the same way about me, so I took the easy way out. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. For not telling you, for not making you see, for expecting you to read my mind, and just know. I was _i all in /i _Luke. . . I still am," she says laying her forehead against his shoulder, her hand still clenched tightly in his shirt.

"Lorelai, I can't be what you need, what you want . . . not right now anyway."

"When?" she asks, eyes drenched in tears, unable to just let it go.

"I don't know," he whispers, the pain of it evident in his voice.

And she knows he is hurting as much as she is, in some ways more because he is faced for the first time with an uncertain future, with things he can not control, and he is scared to death.

Their lips meet out of sheer desperation to grab hold of the moment, his one hand tangled in her hair, the other gently wiping the tears from her cheek. Neither one wants to be the first to let go, to leave, to make the decision to start this next phase of their relationship. It's so much easier to stay in this moment, to kiss and hold each other, and pretend that everything is going to be okay. And so they cling, each starting the next kiss as the other ends the one before it.

"I have to go," he says finally, stepping back.

She reluctantly releases her grip on his shirt, watching him walk back to the diner.

The next couple of days go by like a blur, as Rory finally returns home. And for weeks after, things seem to fall into place, into a comfortable rhythm. With Rory along, it's easier to fall back into her early morning coffee banter, watching in amusement the way both Rory and Luke answer her with their own brand of wit and humor. And everything is almost right with her world, except when their eyes meet and she sees her still unanswered question hanging between them._ When Luke? When will it be time for us?_

She has been reluctant to invade his space too much, sticking to early morning breakfasts. She knows his daughter spends a lot of time at the diner in the afternoons, and she's glad they are getting to know each other. So she hasn't met her yet, waiting for Luke to offer an invitation, to start to close the gap between the pieces of his life. And as the weeks go by and nothing seems to change she wonders if they ever will. And she is almost ashamed of the jealousy she feels towards a twelve year-old.

As she pulls the Jeep up to the curb, she sits for a minute listening to a song on the radio, one she has heard a million times before. _I will remember you, will you remember me?_ _Don't let your life, pass you by_. . . And she clicks it off before the song is over, the haunting melody ringing in her ears, the words echoing in her mind, fueling the fear she has been holding at bay for weeks. She holds firm to her resolve, it's time to move things forward. _She's only a little girl _she reminds herself.

She has tried to give him time to figure things out, but as each week passes, their middle seems farther and farther away. She understands his need to put his child first, respects that, has lived that. But she also knows how hard it is to have a relationship when the people in your life don't know each other or except each other. How much misunderstanding and pain that can be caused by the things left unsaid.

The diner is quiet, only a few people there in the late afternoon. A child with long dark hair

sits at the counter, reading a book. Luke is nowhere in sight as she enters and takes a seat at the opposite end.

"Lorelai, hi," he says, looking a little guilty as he steps out of the kitchen, glancing at the girl who is studiously reading, ignoring them both.

Looking from Lorelai to April, then back to Lorelai, he asks, "Day off?" a little amused now at his situation.

"I just helped Rory moved the rest of her things down to New Haven."

"So, she's back at school?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Yes. It's very good."

"Was that Christopher I saw around town recently," he asks too nonchalantly,waiting for an answer.

"Yes. It seems Christopher has come into quite a bit of money and he wants to share it."

"Really."

"Yes. He wants to make up for all the times he wasn't around. In fact he said, whatever I want, I could have."

"Really," he answers in a little bit of a snit.

"Well, that's nice," he says between clenched teeth.

"As long as he gets you everything you want," he growls.

Smiling at his obvious jealousy, she taunts him a little more.

"He can't give me _everything_ I want," she answers suggestively, smiling at him fully to let him know she was leading him along.

His answering grin is enough to make her sure it was the right choice to enter the diner in the afternoon.

"So Luke, why don't you introduce me to your daughter?" she says sweetly.

_To be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

The resounding knock has her jumping from the couch, startled by the impatience of her late night visitor. Opening the door, she barely has time to get out of the way, before he comes striding into the house, obviously upset.

"I made her cry," he practically shouts.

"Who?"

"April," he groaned, pacing in her living room.

"What happened," she asks, wondering what he possibly could have done to upset her.

"When you left the diner today, she started asking me all kinds of questions. You know, like is _she your girlfriend_, _do you like her, are you going to marry her someda? _I thought she was just being curious, you know, trying to find out more about me. So, I'm being honest with her. I tell her we're on sort of a break, but hopefully things will work out in the future."

"Okay. Sounds okay so far. What happened next?"

"I noticed she kept getting quieter and quieter as the day went on but I thought she was just tired or bored. But by the time I drove her home she wasn't even talking to me. So when I pulled into the driveway I asked her what her problem was."

At Lorelai's wince, he rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I could have probably been a little more tactful. But I did get results."

"She was mad at you."

"Worse. . . disappointed. I could take angry. I was almost expecting angry. I didn't expect . . ."

Watching Luke slump down on the couch, looking defeated, she's not sure she wants to hear his next words.

"Apparently she's had these dreams of having a family. You know, the long lost father comes home and finds the mother and daughter have been waiting for him all these years, and they live happily ever after."

"Oh Luke," she sighs, " you must have known, even a little, that she might have had plans for you."

Watching him close his eyes, she wonders where his thoughts are taking him.

"Did Rory? Did she have those dreams? Did she make plans?" he asks finally.

Surprised a little by the twist of the conversation, she answers honestly.

"Yes. Of course she did. I asked her once about it, and she laughed it off a little. Told me she hoped one day Chris and I would make a family for her, or Pee Wee Herman. . . . it was a toss up. And when she was sixteen, when Christopher came to visit that time, he asked me to marry him, and of course, I said no, but she heard it, heard the proposal, and I'm sure she was disappointed a little, even though she understood why."

"Christopher proposed to you when?"

"Remember the morning I came to the diner in my pajamas and apologized for standing you up. . . then."

"How come I never knew this?"

"I don't know. You were mad and hurt and I was confused . . . it wasn't something I talked about."

The silence hung in the air between them, each wondering what the other was thinking.

"Do you regret it? Regret . . . .not making a family for her?

"God Luke," she says, pacing now in front of the fireplace.

"Do you think I didn't ask myself those questions, when Rory and I didn't talk for four months? Do you think I didn't wonder if she had a full time father as a teen if maybe things wouldn't have worked out differently, that she might have been stronger?"

Angry now, the words pour out of her mouth, feeling not only the pain of the last months,

but the renewed fear of where this conversation is going.

"Or maybe it would have been worse. Maybe living with parents that couldn't make each other happy would have driven her out of the house even earlier."

"Lorelai. . . I.. . ."

"Don't make me justify my decisions, don't make this about me," she says firmly.

Standing up now too, facing her, he sighs briefly before saying in a quiet voice.

"I don't know how to fix this. I feel responsible for her, responsible for not being there for the last twelve years. I just want to make her happy. I just want her to be okay. I don't want to disappoint her."

"I know. But Luke, you can't wave a magic wand and change what went before. You have to build on what you have now."

"By the time we finished talking in her driveway, she was crying. She jumped out of the truck and ran into the house. I went to the door, I just couldn't leave everything like that. I wanted to go in and talk to her some more. But she had stormed to her room, and Anna said she had it covered. And she gave me that look, you know, the one you give the deadbeat father."

"Luke, what do you want me to say? You're not seriously considering trying to make this happen for her, are you?"

"I don't know," he says simply, running his hand across his face.

Defenseless, she couldn't even answer him back. What can she possibly say that wouldn't sound selfish. _She can't have you, you're mine. Don't you see how much you are hurting me. _Feeling her future crumble, anger seems to be the easiestemotion to follow.

"I can't tell you what to do. It's not fair of you to ask that of me. It's your decision Luke, you do whatever you want, leave me out of it," shouting now, she walks over to the door, opens it and stands silently as he gets the hint that it's his time to leave.

"Lorelai. . .."

"Not now," she says as she closes the door firmly between them.

Two hours of pacing and thinking have helped put some of Luke's surprising revelations into perspective. He came tonight looking for a friend, someone to confide in, talk things over with. Instead he got the ex-girlfriend, the one who saw visions of her future crumble before her eyes, and just lost it.

Making a decision, she drives to the diner. Maybe they can salvage something of this night, talk it through, come up with a plan. Grabbing the key, she lets herself in and makes her way up the stairs. She hesitates before knocking, putting on her game face. Softly tapping on the door, she hears a muffled come in.

"Are you going to yell at me some more? Because I'm quite drunk and a little defenseless right now," he says from the couch.

Smiling apologetically at him, she answers, "Oh, poor baby. Rough day, huh."

Smiling back at her, he just groans in agreement.

Approaching him, she leans over to give him a light peck on the lips.

"I'm sorry Luke, I know you needed a friend tonight."

"I needed my best friend," he says staring down at the bottle of beer balanced precariously on his knee.

"She's here. I left the evil ex-girlfriend at home, okay?"

"Okay."

"You know, everything really does look better in the morning. It's not just a cliché, although for you that might not be true, because you are going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow."

Kneeling down between his knees she tries to untie his boot laces.

"Jeez Luke. Who ties your shoes in the morning? They're all knotted up."

Intent on his laces, she doesn't realize that he's all but squirming on the couch.

"Lorelai," he groans as she leans her cheek against the inside of his knee, finally getting the stubborn knot out.

Stroking her hair, he slides further down the couch, practically groaning.

"Don't even think about it mister. That's what happens when you put your girlfriend on hold, remember," she says with a smirk, finally realizing that her actions are getting a definite reaction from Luke.

As their eyes meet, the needy look on his face is a balm for her battered heart.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Shhhh. It's okay."

"Nothing I said came out the way I wanted it to. I was just thinking out loud, you know, just figuring things out. . . I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know."

"It will always be you. If I ever had to make a decision on who I was going to spend my future with, it would always be you. I want to be her father. I want to make her happy, but I can't live a lie for her."

"She'll understand."

"I should have told her about you from the beginning. I should have introduced you right away."

"She'll get to know me. We did it the hard way, but it will work out. Kids are a lot smarter than everyone gives them credit for. She knows she's getting a great dad. She's fallen for you already. That's not going to change."

Leaning over him, she presses a soft kiss to his lips.

"Come on, time for bed."

But before she can tug him from the couch, he has her tumbling into his lap.

"I've missed this," he sighs, running his fingers through her hair, kissing her softly.

"I've missed this too," she groans, pulling him in for a deeper kiss.

"Next time I do or say something stupid could you just slap me, it'd probably be less painful."

"For both of us."

_To be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

Disoriented, she reaches for the phone but the bedside table is empty. Realizing she is at Luke's and that Luke's phone is halfway across the room she stumbles out of bed. _Who keeps their phone this far from the bed anyway _she grumbles to herself, grabbing the receiver.

"Hello," she says sleepily, looking at the kitchen clock strike seven.

"Is Luke there?" she hears a female voice ask.

Looking over at Luke, still dead to the world, she hesitates for a minute before replying.

"He can't come to the phone right now. Would you like to leave a message?" she answers, a little coldly.

Hearing a sigh from the other end of the phone, the hesitancy in answering, she prompts her.

"Anna?"

"Yes. April is on her way over. I got up to a note saying she had to talk to him before school. I'm not sure how long ago she left, but she'll probably be there any minute."

"Oh. . . okay. Thanks."

"Lorelai?"

"Yes," she says softly.

"I'm glad you're there."

"Thanks. I better get Luke up."

"Okay. . .and Good Luck."

Racing around the bedroom, dressing as quickly as possible, she stops to shake Luke a couple of times, but he just answers with a groan.

"Luke, you have to wake up, April is on her way over."

"What?" he says, sitting up, looking disheveled and sleepy.

At the sudden knock on the door, they both jump.

"We are so busted," she says, meeting his now frozen expression.

Watching Luke hastily pull on his jeans from the night before, she adjusts her own clothes before answering the door.

"Good morning," Lorelai says a little sheepishly, feeling unexpectedly guilty being caught in Luke's apartment.

"Good morning," April says hesitantly, "is my... is Luke here?"

"Yes. Of course. Come in," Lorelai answers her, ushering her in the door.

Lorelai can't help but smile at the picture Luke makes. Barefoot, rumpled, wrinkled and incredibly hung over, he makes his way to the kitchen table, mumbling a i good morning /i on his way, before dropping into a chair and burying his face in his hands.

Surprisingly, this spurs April to action, dropping her coat and backpack on the couch, she goes to the kitchen and grabs a glass out of the cabinet, searching the refrigerator for orange juice, and declaring success on finding some.

"Aspirin?" she asks Lorelai, who is still staring dumbfounded at the child's practicality in such a tension filled circumstance.

"Right, sure," she answers, finding some in the drawer near the silverware, handing them to her, and dropping down at the kitchen table, joining Luke.

"My mother swears this always works for a hangover," April says matter-of-factly.

"Your mother have a lot of rough nights?" Luke answers her gruffly, finally entering into the conversation.

"No. But once a year she goes out with her high school girlfriends, and they always end up playing this game of whoever did this or that - has to take a shot. She usually does really well until they get to the _i whoever got lucky with Butch_ /I part she says, then apparently she must have been really lucky cause she always wins that one.

"Jeeze," Luke groans, again burying his face in his hands.

"Oh. . . . Oh," April squeaks, realizing the meaning of the Butch part after all these years.

April and Lorelai both glance at Luke and then at each other, mirrored smiles appear on their faces, before they both start to giggle at Luke's discomfort. Lorelai watches Luke slowly glance from one to the other realizing that the two women in his life have bonded over something as simple as the mocking of one Butch Danes. He shakes his head before he too lets out a small self-conscious chuckle.

The tension broken, April slides down in a seat at the table, looking suddenly serious and intent on her purpose.

"I'm sorry," she says to Luke.

"You don't have anything to be sorry about," he answers her, squeezing her hand, unconsciously showing her that everything is okay.

"I thought that my mom. . . well she doesn't really date. . . and I never really told her about the whole science fair project until after. . . I thought that maybe. . . she was waiting for you. . . you know, to call her. . . come back and find her. . . something. But she wasn't. . . she isn't. . . she set me straight about that last night," she says, looking apologetically at Luke.

"It's okay."

"She told me that even though I thought that I could just put two and two together, it's not as simple as that with love, that there is no perfect formula, and it's never predictable. I guess she always knew where to find you, but you weren't . . . the one."

"I know."

"And she wasn't the one for you either," she says, glancing at Lorelai.

"No. She wasn't. Are you okay with that?"

"Yes," she says brightly. "So, you're not mad at me?"

"No. I'm not mad at you."

"I think we had our first fight," April says with a slight smile.

"Looks like we did," Luke grins back at her.

"But we're okay now," she nods.

"Yes. We are." he agrees, patting her hand.

"Good. I guess I should be getting to school. I'm going to be late."

"Hey, why don't you go down and get some breakfast, and I'll drive you to school. Your dad can bring your bike to you later with the truck."

"Sure. That sounds great."

Lorelai doesn't miss the slight widening of April's eyes at the words I _your dad_. /I For the first time she realizes how much this child has had to adjust to in the last couple of months. She can almost feel sorry for Anna. She's sure the questions she had to answer last night were not easy ones, for this child has the kind of curious mind that would want to understand every detail.

"Come on, Caesar makes really good blueberry pancakes," Lorelai says, leading her out the door.

"Lorelai, I'll see you later," Luke promises.

She wasn't nervous an hour ago when Luke called to say he was going to bring April's bike back and clear the air with Anna and then he'd be over. But since then she's been flitting from one activity to another, unable to distract herself from her wayward thoughts. After finally coaxing him off the couch last night and into bed, it was only moments before he was out for the count. Lying there, watching him sleep, feeling the heat radiating off his body, was both a pleasure and a torture. So many things were left unsaid, although it was a start of sorts, and hopefully a beginning. He sounded so sure on the phone, calling to let her know he was coming, that he had a purpose, that they needed to talk.

She has never felt less like talking in her life. All she can think about is touching him, seeing his eyes and expression change when she is pleasing him. All she can think about is loving him. Her heart feels like it's going to beat out of her chest, nerves jangled with adrenaline, a mixture of fear and desire making her jumpy and shaky all at once.

When the knock comes she has to stop and just breathe for a minute, telling herself to calm down, to take it slow, to let him talk, to let him set the pace.

But when the door closes and she is standing so close to him, her resolve to be cool is forgotten, and she finds herself reaching for him, unable to stop herself. Running her hand along his cheek, meeting his lips, she is reminded of the first time she kissed him so long ago on the Dragonfly's steps. When his hands grasp her hips, she sways into his embrace, a soft moan escaping the back of her throat.

"I wasn't going to do this," she groans, unable to release him.

"I'm not complaining," he answers, capturing her lips for another deep kiss, his moan now mixing with hers as their need grows.

Stepping back, she reaches down to take his hand, leading him up the stairs.

As they enter the bedroom, the soft light from the hall, casts shadows on the dark room. And suddenly she can feel the weight of the last time they were here, crushing her chest, filling her eyes with tears.

"Lorelai, we should talk," he says, feeling her sudden tension.

"Later," she says, kissing him softly,.

"Never," she whispers, tugging at his shirt,.

"It doesn't matter," she cries, suddenly overcome by the emotions overcrowding her mind.

"Luke, make me forget that I cried myself to sleep the last time you left here," she says, meeting his gaze, unable to stop herself from trembling in front of him, from voicing her need for him to understand, to heal.

"God, Lorelai, I. . . ."

"Just love me," she whispers, "I need. . ."

"You," he answers simply, for her, with her.

Inpatient hands tear at clothing, both needing to feel skin and heat. Pushing her back on the bed, he races over her with his hands and mouth, control lost in the searing need to both love and possess. Soft cries of pleasure turn to shuddering sobs as he brings her up again and again.

"Luke, please. . ." she moans, needing him inside her.

And when he fills her, they both moan, whispering needs and words too long unspoken. And when they start to move, each matching the rhythm of the other, they know they have banished at least some of the ghosts of the past.

Luke?" she asks, wondering if he's fallen asleep.

"Now you want to talk?"

"Yes. I'll talk. You listen. Okay?"

"Sure."

Plumping the pillows up behind them, she leans against his chest as he brings his arms around her, tucking the covers around them.

"Give me your hand," she says.

"This is you," she explains, holding up his hand. "And this is me," she says, taking her smaller, paler hand and holding it flat against this palm. "And this is us together," she says, folding her fingers between his and squeezing his hand lightly, waiting for him to close his fingers against her hand.

"Okay, go on."

"And when things get dishonest, or jealous, or angry, or confused or complicated, all we have to do is just hold on a little tighter," she says, tightening her grip, "and everything will be okay. It's when we let go of each other that things get screwed up, you know what I mean?"

"Yes," he answers, taking their joined hands to his lips and planting a soft kiss on her knuckles, squeezing her hand gently.

"It's all really very simple. Sometimes I'll have to hold on a little tighter because you need me, and sometimes you'll have to hold on a little tighter because I need you."

"As long as we don't let go," he reassures her.

"Yes. As long as we don't ever let go again."

"Because Luke," she says with conviction, "when we hold on like this, we're. . . unbreakable."

"Unbreakable," he repeats thoughtfully, ". . . yeah. . . I like that."

"Yeah. . . me too."

THE END


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